you don't know the half of the abuse
by Marvelgeek42
Summary: Mycroft Holmes remembers his first life crystal clear. The life he spent saving people and hunting things with his then-big brother Dean.
1. Rewind, Renew, Redo

**So, this is the start of _another_ multichapter. As if I don't already have, like, eleven ongoing ones... Oops. In my defense, this has driven me crazy for the past week or so and I am already plotting out the next chapter as I type this, even if I will finish at least one—possibly two—other story first. I promise.**

 **This is also my first full story for either Supernatural or Sherlock. And I am not even close to up to date with Supernatural, though I've been spoilered up to mid-season 11. I intend to catch up during December.**

 **The song _Heathens_ from Twenty One Pilots was a major inspiration for this.**

 **Word Count: 2,192**

* * *

 ** _Rewind, Renew, Redo_**

* * *

The first seven years of his new life were very weird for Sam Winchester.

For one thing, he was no longer called Sam. He had another name now, which he supposed only made sense. He had new parents and everything as well.

Another thing that made the entire experience feel so very off was that he was an only child. It felt so weird and odd.

He did not like this feeling at all, so he decided to do what he always—often—did when he had no idea what to do.

He hit the books.

Of course it took a couple of years until he had the mobility needed to do this and make it seem like a gradual process.

Mycroft Holmes—for that was his name now—lasted two years and three months before he took the simplest book he could find—and reach. This size was quite different when compared to what he was used to—and started to 'teach himself how to' read.

It was safe to say that his new, second, hopefully surviving set of parents was quite impressed.

* * *

Sam—Mycroft—was quite an odd child in every possible sense of the phrase and then some.

It was impossible not to be, no matter how hard he tried.

How could he—Sam Winchester, the possibly still demon blood addicted Hunter that happened to be Lucifer's vessel be normal?  
Wait, was he even still the vessel?

Because he did have a whole new—currently four-year-old—body and all. And his former self had yet to be born, so some other poor sod was currently suffering this curse.

The probability that the person in question had no idea was quite high, but it could not be him. It was impossible, this particular burden only transferred when the owner of it died—permanently.

There was no way he would not do that within the next seven years. Not if he could do anything against it and that was by no means an insignificant amount.

Even if he was currently a toddler. He had his ways.

* * *

When he—Mycroft, not Sam—was six, his mother—he had a mother!—became pregnant.

The resulting conversation was quite awkward, so to say. He had to pretend to be all innocent and naive. He had only barely been that when he had turned six for the first time. Mycroft was not sure if he remembered what those words meant when put to practise.

A small part of him dared to hope that this child would be someone he knew—Charlie, Kevin, Adam or—dare he dream it—just maybe even...

No it was ridiculous. It could not be the case and it would not only be pointless but detrimental to get his hopes up.

Mycroft was more than smart enough to realized that.

He was smart enough to realize a lot of things that no one else seemed to notice or care about, but that may just have been his long experience as a Hunter—the capital 'H' was definitely necessary—worming its way into his life once again.

* * *

Mycroft could not help but wonder if the baby—his brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes—could possibly, be Dean?

He shouldn't give himself false hope, but it seemed so irrationally plausible to him, the way the kid smiled and made attempts to grab Mycroft whenever he entered the child's field of vision. William rarely did that to anyone else, seemingly distrusting them, but not Mycroft.

Then there was his gut feeling. If there was one thing he had learned as a Hunter, then it was that his gut feeling was rarely wrong when it came to Dean, no matter how frequently it used to be in other matters.

That was a thing of the past, however. Mycroft knew better now. He had taught himself to observe, not just see. By observing, he was able to discover so many more things that he rarely needed to investigate to find out anything about anyone.

He had already known a lot and he was just getting better and better.

On a side note, just who named their children Mycroft and William? That made no sense at all.

Then again, he supposed their family had never really made sense, so it really should not be this surprising.

That didn't mean that he was happy with this name from the beginning, but he grew to accept and even like it over time.

* * *

He and his brother were 'playing' in William's room a couple of days after the boy—was either of them really a boy?—had turned two, when he offhandedly called his brother by his proper name. William.

The child in question crossed his arms and declared, "Not William. Dean."  
Mycroft sighed. He had seen this coming. Stubbornness had been a major family treat after all. "You can't be Dean. That was an old life, we're living an entirely new one now! And your past self has been born only a couple of months before you were. You can't go around by Dean Winchester in this life, too."

"Not William. William boring." Even though both of them had kept their memories, they still needed to relearn anything that involved muscle memory.

It was quite tenuous, really, and he longed for the day when he would be able to give a reasonable excuse as to why he needed to train shooting, knife throwing and everything else he could think of.

For now he stuck to karate, because many kids his apparent age seemed to be doing this, so it was not unreasonable for him to do the same.

"Okay, then why don't use your new middle name? Sherlock. That sounds plenty exciting."

His brother tested the sound out. "Sherlock," he said slowly, carefully making sure not to stumble over a single letter. Then, he nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes. I like that!"

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes sounded better than Mycroft and William—or, Chuck forbid, Mike and Bill—either way.

* * *

"I want to be a pirate," Sherlock declared when he was seven. Mycroft sighed. Was that how he had been in his first life? Was Sherlock—was _Dean_ trying to pay him back for everything?

"And why?"

"Because Jack Sparrow is awesome." Nevermind that it would be over a decade until the first of those movies came out. His brother had apparently decided to randomly rewatch them in his memories.

Why ever not, Mycroft supposed. It was not like it would hurt anyone and his little brother—because their age difference was larger and he had spent time in that loop and been in hell longer. He was older now—could have picked worse memories.

"Okay. Shall I convince Mommy to let us go to town for a costume?"

He took his brother's beam as a yes.

Sherlock refused to dress in anything else for two weeks. Thank Chuck he had thought to buy two costumes, or else that would have ended horribly for his nose.

* * *

Mycroft was done with the British education system and then some roughly two weeks after that incident; about two and a half years before he was expected to. It was not like it was particularly hard or anything and he had the benefit of already having gone through the process once.

Which brought him to his current problem. What should he do? What kind of job could he find that was challenging and helped him to do the right thing?  
He thought about studying medicine or law—his marks were certainly good enough for either—but both of them brought back painful memories.

Then he discovered political science. It was truly a fascinating subject.

He ended up tutoring roughly half of the law students either way and was allowed to sit in the tests once the professors heard of it.

Mycroft Holmes left the university five years later with four degrees. Political Science, Law, Latin, and Ancient Mythology, though he planned on going back to add more one day.

* * *

"I am not going to be a philosopher or a scientist and you damn well know it," Sherlock ranted at his older brother when he had dared to suggest these things to his currently fifteen-year-old brother. "That's boring and you have to sit around all day. That's nothing for me. I need to save people, to hunt things. Just like in old times."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, "And yet you're going to university. I don't recall you ever doing that last time. And chemistry is not supposed to be easy. It does involve a lot of studying."

The younger brother glared at him. "Shut up. Chemistry is fun."

Mycroft chuckled. "At least you acknowledge I won."

* * *

When his brother told him he wanted to be a detective in this life, Mycroft laughed for a full five minutes.

The irony was priceless.

Then, Sherlock explained his idea which the 'consulting' business.

That made a bit more sense. No matter if Dean or Sherlock, his brother should never be given that kind of authority.

Then again, neither should he and he had already evolved into the shadow ruler of this country, somehow. Mycroft was actually pretty sure there were several dozen laws against it, but it happened.

The Queen and the Prime Minister both served pretty good tea, though.

And, holy Chuck, this was so weird when he put this into context with his first life.

* * *

Mycroft was in a meeting with a number of foreign ministers when he got his brother's text. He gave himself a second to glance on it.

 _You won't believe who I met._

 _-DH_

He returned his eyes to the other politicians before he had even started to type his reply. After all, he had about a decade of experience with this on every single other person in his room.

He knew which buttons to press as smartphones unfortunately would only become common in seven or so years.

 _Who?_

 _-MW_

They had long ago decided to mix their names of this time and last when it was just the two of them. And it certainly confused anyone else.

The reply arrived instantly. Of course his brother on his phone was waiting for their conversation to continue. He did not seem have anything better to do.

 _Bobby works for the NSY! He's actually the closest thing to my superior._

 _-DH_

Mycroft had to suppress a snort. It was quite ironic, what with them being wanted for just about every crime but rape at one point, but he could actually see that.

* * *

The two of them were good for each other.

And if Mycroft's' schedule suddenly happened to take him to his brother's flat, then that was purely a coincidence. Both siblings and Gregoby—as Sherlock had named him—knew that.

A couple of months later, they found Balthazar in the morgue. Molly Hooper was eir name now.

It had caused quite a few memorable scenes, but in the end ey were happy to provide all the body parts Sherlock could possibly need for his experiments. Consequently, they were on exceptionally better terms than before.

* * *

The siblings visited America for old time's sake. They had invited Gregoby to come along, but he had declined, citing work as the reason.

Mycroft supposed that the Inspector had to be quite busy, after all he was also working as a freelance translator at the side while also re-assembling his collection of books and various other written sources.

The reincarnation process seemed to have gotten rid of Dean's fear of heights, though.

They found Gabriel in Florida. As a woman—Martha Hudson—two or three decades older than them.

A quick question and they were informed that Gabriel usually stuck with the sex of his vessel and did not particularly care either way.

Mrs. Hudson had been high at that time—marijuana—and her husband was connected to a double murder.

Dean made sure the husband got the Death Penalty, which strangely won them the currently-powerless Archangel's favour.

"At least you're smarter this time around," she had said.

* * *

A couple of months later, he found Sherlock with a needle in his arm.

Apparently Gabriel had been wrong.

Mycroft slapped his brother on the head and crushed the needle with his foot.

"What on earth do you think you're doing!?" he yelled. He had not done that in a long time.

"Bored," Sherlock drawled in reply.

"This is the weakest excuse you could have used. This is going to stop. Now," he added, putting additional emphasis on the last word.

"I can't. I'll get withdrawal symptoms," Sherlock answered, already plotting how to get out of this.

"I would say that these are plenty interesting. And if I could go cold turkey on demon's blood, then you can do the same for Heroin!"

* * *

Security cameras were installed in his new flat, 221B Baker Street that had been helpfully provided by Gabriel.

Even though she volunteered to look after his brother, Mycroft did not trust her, especially not in this regard. He would have done it himself, but his life as a shadow ruler of a country only allowed that much free time and he had other things he would have liked during that time.

Sherlock still needed a flatmate, but Mycroft was not going to bother finding him one.

His brother could do that much himself.

* * *

 **Please tell me what you think!**

 **~Marvelgeek42**


	2. Different Angles

**So, guess who started even more multichapters _and_ did not catch up with Supernatural?**

 **That's right. It's me.**

 **Also it is currently 2 am and I literally just finished this chapter.**

 **Word Count: 2,152**

* * *

 ** _Different Angles_**

* * *

Sometimes, Dean really hated his brother.

Life without any of the numerous monsters they had to fight in their previous one was so _boring_ and Sherlock wasn't sure he could deal with that any more than absolutely necessary.

The drugs made his life just so much more interesting again. With them, his experiments, and his consulting work for the police—even if he had to bother with the likes of Anderson and Donovan—he didn't felt like he was sitting around pointlessly anymore, which was great, because that was something he absolutely detested.

But now they had been taken from him and life was bound to get boring again.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, he was being forced to live in the same building as Gabriel—who thankfully had roughly none of his mojo at the moment— _and_ find a flatmate.

Who on earth would ever want to live in a flat with him?

He even asked it some guy in the morgue that he vaguely knew, but received no answer, so he went back to work with Molthazar for Gregoby.

That relieved at least some of the boredom, even if it was no permanent solution.

* * *

John Hamish Watson had been born in a stormy winter night in the mid seventies.

The precise date did not matter, because at the same time he was so much older that it wasn't even funny. He wasn't just talking years or even decades, no the difference John was talking about was one of several millennia.

Because he had not always been John Hamish Watson. Before the event that he had thought would bring his final and permanent death, before being born again in a small hospital somewhere in the countryside, he had been someone else.

He had been Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, a Member of Team Free Will.

He had been something and someone else back then, too, but this time, it was different.

Because this time, he remembered.

John—that was his name now, wasn't it? So it seemed reasonable to use it—remembered millennia of being a good and obedient soldier Gabriel leaving them, and Heaven's 're-education' for questioning orders.

He remembered grabbing Dean Winchester and lifting him from Hell—raising him from perdition—and the many changes that had followed.

John remembered killing his brothers and sisters. He remembered falling. He remembered Falling. He remembered Purgatory and sharing a body with Lucifer—Dean must've called them Castifer.

And yet, he also recalled the time before Adam and Eve had been created, back when Lucifer had still been Samael, the brightest of them all. Before The Fall—and if that did not deserve capitals, then what did?—when he and his siblings—and even their Parent who had become known as Chuck somewhere down the line—had been a real family.

* * *

He was never quite sure how to interact with his human sister, Harriet.

She was so very different from any sibling he had had—and known, because there were too many of them to know them all—before. He was still new to human emotions—relatievly speaking at least—and angels did not change easily.

Even if he was human now.

And it wasn't like he knew what he should do, because it wasn't like the WInchesters were the prime example to follow.

John was sure that he had left her down more than a couple of times, that she must think of him as odd and removed, but he tried. He did his best.

It simply wasn't enough.

It never was.

But he was trying and, in a sense, it was the thought that counted.

John tried and over time, he improved ever so slightly.

* * *

School was most certainly an interesting experience, but if he was honest, he would prefer not to repeat the process ever again.

A lot of things that were considered normal and consequently were expected of him were things he still had to learn, like raising his hand whenever he wanted to speak.

He didn't always remember to do it and was considered as someone who deliberately interrupted class.

Everyone around him had only five short years of existence behind them. Of course it was easier for them to learn new rules.

Then, there was the thing that humans got a lot of things wrong. He knew better—he had _been there_ , for Parent's sake—but they didn't know that. So whenever he tried to point out their mistakes, they dismissed it as childish imagination or punished him for the interruption.

Castiel could have spent his life without the experience.

* * *

When he was eighteen, John decided to join the military.

He wasn't sure whether or not he liked it, it simply felt like the right thing to do.

He knew how to be a soldier and he knew that he was somewhat good at it. He could not say that about any of the other jobs that people tried to convince him to be.

Also, it gave him a sense of purpose, if nothing else. It was preferable to the alternative, finding a new one.

He wouldn't know where to start and the thought alone scared him.

But, John decided, he also wanted to help people.

And the best way he knew how to was to be able to treat their injuries properly, so he became a medic.

* * *

Afghanistan was certainly _something_.

It was eerily similar to John's memories of the time when he was Castiel, but at the same time, it was quite different.

Centuries upon centuries of following orders almost without questions had left their mark on him.

There wasn't a lot that he was not prepared to do.

Once one thought about it, it was no real wonder that he was always the first medic on scene, almost arriving with the troops themselves.

It was only a matter of time until he got injured, if he was being honest, but for some reason it was still a surprise when it happened.

A shot in his leg and suddenly, he had a limp and flesh on three continents.

* * *

The wound got him sent back to England and John was lost.

He didn't know what to do with himself and neither Harriet nor her girlfriend Clara were any real help. They were too busy with themselves and their breakup.

He had no real place in the universe—not any longer—or at the very least it felt like it.

What was he supposed to do with all of his time?

At Clara's suggestion, he went to a therapist, but as he never had the confidence to tell her about his past life as Castiel—she would not believe him and he didn't particularly fancy a spot in an asylum—she was no real help.

John barely even remembered to eat and sleep anymore, because he was so immersed in his memories that he kept forgetting that he needed to.

He was sure that he worried all of his few friends and his family, but somehow it didn't feel like there was a point in trying at all.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade would one day skin the brothers alive.

He knew that both of them had gotten so much smarter this time around, but did they really need to rub it into everyone's noses? Why did they have to continue being such idjits?

Especially Dean, Sherlock, whatever his name was!

Greg was well aware that the man most likely knew more than he and his team did right now, but that was no reason to make him look incompetent in front of the press!

He knew how much the press influenced what people thought and it wasn't like the subject of serial suicides was an easy one either way and he had to go any ruin it.

Donovan did have a point to be so annoyed with the man. However, Greg knew that they wouldn't be able to stop him if they tried, so he settled for scolding him in front of the landlady and the morgue worker.

This was he was at least somewhat cooperative some of the time.

That did not mean he had to like it.

* * *

Then, John stumbles across Mike Stamford in a park in Central London again. The man recognizes him and they start talking.

He had been planning to move away—an attempt to flee from the memories. He can't afford the area, but at the moment anything would be better than staying where he was.

When meets with Stamford—with MIke—and somehow they start talking about flatmates.

"Who would ever want to live in a flat with me?"

It's a honest question, because John didn't think anyone would. Not with John Watson and especially not with Castiel.

The only people who had been different were dead and he was almost sure that he was in a different dimension than before, but he could not be certain until in a couple of years.

"Funny," Mike Stamford comments. "That's the second time someone told me that today."

And all of a sudden, John is interested in their conversation again.

"Who was the first one?"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was working in the morgue with Molthazar when it happened.

He needed to test the formation of bruises a corpse for a current case, and Molthazar was currently either watching the process or getting him coffee when there was a knock on the door.

Mike Stamford—a teacher at Bart's, _boring_ —entered with another man.

The man looked at the equipment and made a comment about the difference between it and the ones in his day.

 _Studied here. Tan lines at the wrists. Holds himself with confidence. Add the haircut into mix and you've got yourself an army doctor._

 _His limp is pronounced when he's walking, but he doesn't request a chair. Conclusion: At least partly psychosomatic._

The professor laughed in agreement, before Sherlock interrupts the two of them.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone there's no signal on mine."

He honestly prefers texting and Mike's phone is in his coat, so the doctor offers his.

 _Helpful and/or polite._

They make eye contact for just barely a second and suddenly everything changes.

* * *

Was it possible that the strange man in the morgue was in fact Dean Winchester?

Sure it could not be possible. They looked differently, for one thing.

But the expression on the possibly- stranger's face was equally confused for just a second and that was all the confirmation he really needed.

John—no, this was Castiel right now—could feel it.

The man-that-is-most-likely-Dean stood up and moved over to take his phone.

"It's an old friend of mine. John Watson," Mike mentioned helpfully, because somehow he had forgotten to do this himself.

And then, the stranger asked. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Mike looked at John with a smile on his face that meant something along the lines of 'See? What did I tell you?' based on what John had learned.

But how did almost-certainly-Dean know that?

* * *

"Sorry?" Johnstiel questioned. Mixing the names was so much more convenient than figuring out which one to use. Sherlock was good enough not to slip up and in the off chance he did, he had prepared about thirteen excuses for various situations.

Apparently, it would have been too much to ask to that the former angel was as smart as he was this time around.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

As Sherlock started to text first the police and then his brother, Johnstiel exchanged a look with Mike.

Right in that moment Molthazar returns with coffee.

Sherlock does his best to somehow imply his recent discovery in his greeting; Mike's presence prohibited them from talking about anything connected to their past lives.

Instead he asks how Johnstiel likes the violin. His mother in this life had required him to learn a number of instruments, but he only continued to practise the violin.

"I'm sorry, what?" Johnstiel wondered. He seemed to be doing that a lot today.

* * *

Mycroft gets the text right in the middle of a meeting with the G8 representatives, because apparently Chuck really likes this kind of timing.

 _Found Cas again! He is an army doctor._

 _Will he suffice as roommate?_

 _-DH_

A smile slowly crept its way on his lips as he typed his reply.

 _That will be suitable._

 _-MW_

Those two most certainly deserved some happiness after all they had been through last time around.

And maybe Cas spending some time as a human would help the two of them with their reluctance to admit their feelings for each other.

He wouldn't bet on it though, so he planned to enlist the help of Gregoby, Molthazar, and—most importantly, she would live with the two of them—Gabriel, because the tension between his brother and his angel was too much for anyone to take.

But first he had another international crisis to prevent.

"I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen.I'm always on call in case there is an emergency and my brother somehow got hold of this number. Where were we?"

* * *

 **Guest: Thank you! I hope you don't mind me taking a month.**

 **Savannah Smiles: Thank you!**

* * *

 **Please tell me what you think!**

 **~Marvelgeek42**


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